


solitude, crimson-gold and delicious

by Ashling



Category: Emily of New Moon - L. M. Montgomery
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, cameos from other characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:55:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21904075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/pseuds/Ashling
Summary: Another kind of happy ending.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 38
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	solitude, crimson-gold and delicious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aaronlisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaronlisa/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, Aaronlisa! I hope this satisfies your Yuletide cravings. <3

Dean's letter took a long time to arrive, but arrive at last it did. Even before she'd opened it, Emily had already divined its contents; with time and distance, she'd come to see him as clearly as she could. _That house must not be disappointed again,_ he wrote, and it was that sentence in particular that allowed her into it, that last thread of kinship between her and Dean that fashioned itself into a key. Whatever miseries and cruelties had taken place between them, they both knew the place and loved it so much that his last gift came not as an apology or a concession but something entirely necessary. Emily agreed; it must not. 

The little grey house looked lonely, though she couldn't make out much of it against the blaze of the sunset. The next morning, she would go downstairs and gently but firmly make her way through the predictable tangle of objections—but tonight. Tonight the house was hers and she was swept with a sharp urgency. She couldn't wait any longer. Heedless of the time and the swiftly darkening path, she all but flew down the hill.

Inside—yes. Yes. It was exactly as she'd remembered it. A little stale, perhaps—she flung open the windows and let in great gusts of cool evening air—but she would have it right soon enough. Old Elizabeth Bas, as rosy-cheeked and keen-eyed as ever, peered at Emily over her enormous white ruff with an expression of satisfaction. A little condescension in it too, but that only made Emily feel young and saucy.

"Yes," she wanted to say. "Yes, I _am._ " 

The room seemed a little brighter for that.

Emily was laughing as she unlocked the door to her house. She had happened upon Old Kelly on the road and he had given her a ride home, or close enough, since she was laden with bags of groceries and he was in a chatty mood. (Though, to be honest, he was always in a chatty mood.) They had caught up, and once he had gotten over his initial grumblings and dire prophecies on the subjects of old maids, he turned out to be happy for her, and more congratulatory than she had expected. _I did tell ye, did I not? The Lord intended ye for something different._ And Emily owned, wholeheartedly, that he had been right.

As soon as she'd closed the door behind her, she dropped her bags and made for the fireplace, lighting it up with speed born of much practice. Then she set about putting away her food, humming all the while. It felt good to see her little pantry filling up; the "flash" had come to her earlier in the week and for four days she hadn't stirred a foot save to go have dinner with the Aunts and Cousin Jimmy, once. The feeling of it had abated earlier that morning, but when she was alone, she still slipped easily into musings over the workings of the story itself, and particularly one of her characters, a gap-toothed boy named Danny that she somehow couldn't seem to get right. He _kept_ insisting that he must be involved with the birth of the widow's twins, but he was keeping stubbornly silent about exactly why.

Dinner was two fire-baked russet potatoes in a chipped blue bowl, eaten with salt and butter and an old spoon. It kept Emily's hands nice and warm while she curled up in a big green armchair and thought more and more on Danny until at last the bowl was empty, the fire had gone out, and she had an idea. She put the bowl down, reached for her notebook, and began to write again. When the moon was a sliver hung high in the sky, she finally fell asleep, pen still in hand, and only then did the darkness come into the house, as warm and comforting as an old friend.

Ilse's baby was as yet too small to have much of her personality, but at least she had some of that hair, downy and light. It tickled Emily's nose when she kissed her, which was often, tonight especially. She had dreaded this night so much—she knew perfectly well that she could keep the baby alive for a couple of days while Ilse joined Perry on the campaign trail—but then, she hadn't had to dedicate her every waking hour to one person for years now, and she had been worried that she was severely out of practice. As it turned out, the baby mostly slept.

Emily called her _the baby_ in her head because she refused to call her Little Emily, as Ilse and Perry insisted on doing. The baby didn't seem to mind. The baby didn't mind anything, really, as long as there was milk when she wanted it and her diaper was dry, and Emily, for her part, didn't mind doing any of this as long as the baby didn't cry. She even got in a few chapters of reading while rocking the baby's cradle with her foot, and grew so absorbed in it that she didn't notice the baby was awake until the baby made a distinctly loud sort of noise.

Startled, she peered down at the tiny creature, already going through the list of its possible grievances in her head. But it wasn't unhappy; in fact, it seemed delighted by something above her head. Emily looked up. 

Above them, glowing without heat, were small spots of crimson-gold light that floated rather like fireflies, except that these were softer and unblinking. Somehow, they didn't surprise Emily. She had for some time now been somewhat aware that she never lacked for light when she wanted it, and she had never relinquished old fancies about fairy folk and witches—not really. She'd dreamed more vividly fantastical dreams than this while awake, and believed her own dreaming. The only surprise in it was that magic could come to the same little house where she washed her dishes and frowned over her edits and tied up her correspondence with Teddy in wide lavender ribbons; that instead of having to be sought out in someone else, magic had found her.


End file.
